Life in Technicolor
by Red Riding Freak
Summary: Life was always colorful because they had the red and yellow of each other. A collection of hopefully fluffy GaaNaru/NaruGaa themed oneshots.


**Morning Birds**

**Summary: **Sometimes he found some plenitude in watching him sleep, slowly breathing in and then breathing out. To think that wonderful warmth by his side could have been forced into eternal slumber, so still his chest wouldn't move.

**Disclaimer: **I can't say I own any of Naruto characters, places or the storyline, all of those are Masashi Kishimoto's. And the lyrics at the beginning and ending are from the amazing song "Under The Covers", by The Spill Canvas.

**Major Premise: **Some kind of canon verse but some years in the future. Gaara is still the Kazekage and is in a homoerotic relationship with Naruto. Warnings for pseudo-Naruto and pseudo-Gaara?

**Some Notes: **The idea to this small fan-fic was born when I was listening to Death Cab's "What Sarah Said" and connected it with Naruto and Gaara and how Naruto was so exposed when Gaara died. Also, a way to make me happy since Gaara hasn't appeared again in the manga since his grand appearance.

Beware; reading this might damage your brain. I kinda tried to make this fluffy; I guess I failed a bit.

Big thanks go to my fantastic sister and beta, _kathlaida-princess_.

Anyways, enjoy?

-------

_«If I could sleep forever…»_

-

The sun had set a long time ago.

As the time of that night slowly ran out, little telltale signs of the threatening rays of sun on the horizon were becoming progressively more present, not much alike the ghost they had been not long ago. The pink light invading the sky, small groups of tiny, blue birds flying around the still in-slumber houses and homes, letting out their morning songs, all of them told whoever was awake at that time and had the mind to decipher the message, "The morning will arrive soon."

It was in times like those that he truly wanted to slow down, inject his heart with a touch of mellow peace, set his breathing to the slow movements of the shadows in the bedroom, half lit in that morning dream because someone had been too careless to properly shut the window panes.

Those times he wasn't the _he_ people were used to see and know, except for himself and that one figure still asleep by his side. But perhaps, that was the true face, one too deep to be seen by anyone.

He liked the peace that came with those moments.

He didn't even know how to name it. He didn't quite know how to define it. It was something similar to a dream-like atmosphere that could only be set in those moments lost in the whispers of the previous night and the warmth he so loved, that feeling of belonging in someone else's heart and in return keeping a neat patch for that loved one – who wasn't like a loved one, but more an extension of his own being, one that was perfect where he was imperfect.

And only that made him happy.

Well, maybe many things were enough to make him happy and think, "This world is worth the ride", but that one thing made him especially happy. People told him he was just being silly, with a smile of one who knows something that might end up unlike the dreams he kept, yet smiling because at that moment he was happy. He knew they were hiding something and he had an idea of what that might be. However, he knew they didn't have bad intentions, just the fear of spoiling such beautiful fact of life.

Ah, how he knew that so well. He feared it, not only because he had lived it once – and cried for it tears he wished would never exist – but not even the ghost, the horizon in each one of them would eventually be alone, was enough to make him go back in that decision.

Maybe because he knew better than them all.

He wasn't intelligent and he wasn't smart, but his life and the experiences that came with it gave him wisdom. He knew that for someone who lead a life like his, those small moments of peace were worth all the effort, all the fighting, all the sweat and the pain and the wounds, eventually love would find a way to kiss those simple problems away.

And that dream that was real was worth any nightmare and any scar on the wall, four lines and another one across them, for the days without the Yang to his Yin. Days spent living without that one person, days that he was sure to remember so he could later share them.

And it was in those moments where he found the plenitude that was the remedy to his overdose of life, when he watched him sleep, when he could listen to the soft sound of his chest slowly rising and with a calm mirroring that pace, lowering again. It was the rhythm of the life by his side, so it was the rhythm of his life as well.

He had to be a saint to refrain himself from reaching out a hand, a nimble hand at those times and caressing the porcelain make-believe skin that was already merging with his, curling the vermillion curled locks of his hair, that looked so lovely in that pink light – making Naruto wonder who was the idiot who said red didn't look good in pink – and then brushing them off of the sleeping face, lightly circling his dark rings around his eyes and placing a soft kiss, so soft that there would be no remaining sensation in his skin, so soft it could only be an illusion, in the red scarred traces that said love.

He liked his presence close to him. He worshipped his existence and loved his soul and body. He felt as if it was only natural, slowly – not to wake him up – getting even closer to him, feeling more of his skin, and then standing still in an attempt to merge those two bodies as one.

Saffron to vermillion, honey to ivory, cerulean to jade, body to body, skin to skin, soul to soul, Naruto to Gaara, love to love. And that made him fulfilled.

And then he would smile and stare at him, because tomorrow would be a new day and a new succession of days without him. And he would think – lightly, because he knew that wasn't his strength – about his luck.

And to think that once that chest was to stop his rising and lowering and cut his life and his world, but not the meaning of that five lettered word. To think about the tears he had shed for him, tears that weren't water, tears that were silent prayers to nothing in special, but maybe to Time and Life. Those were tears that had a mantra, "Save him, I love him."

When he really considered that entire situation, later, when he was – a little – more matured, he realized how deep his feelings went. He wondered, how he would react if he knew what he did for him. He wondered, what his reaction would be if he knew the callings of his name, the embraces of his cold, lifeless form, the rest of his existence, the tears blown with the wind and the sting in his heart threatening to destroy it at any moment at the lightest of provocations, because it was so weak.

Thinking about it, he had to lose him to know how deep he was seeded in his heart. When he died, that was love, it was the time his subconscious – the wisest part of him – let everyone but the ones who should actually know that it was love, the love that only came to the surface at watching him die.

And a second chance was granted. He fought for it and it was graciously handed to him, and he took it with care and decided to make it worth.

How lucky he was to feel that chest rising and lowering.

And he would shake those thoughts out of his head, to keep them from corrupting that otherwise perfect scene. And he would open his eyes again and smile and place a kiss on his skin once again.

Even if he was as soft as he knew he was, it was by then that the one so close to him would let him know for sure that he had been awake for all that time being, in silence, feeling every of the blonde's innocent and caring ministrations, loving all the love was being given to him. He would open his eyes and pierce his with a still sleepy smile.

"Good morning," he would say if those words weren't useless and if they weren't the premonition of something sad.

If the morning came that meant he would have to leave him and go away, go away a long distance until he arrived at his other home, one in the desert. That was part of the way things were, neither of them could be able to enjoy the caring love from their second home for a long time. The distance was unforgiving, three cursed days apart.

The still half sleeping warm body by his side would shift a bit, without much noise, and stretch his bony limbs, enjoying that moment just like the blonde had been until then, ignoring the now lit sky and the cheerful chirping of the birds, clearly getting loud.

However, there was always time for just one more sweet caress, one more hair ruffling with sleepy hands, one more whisper and one more kiss as outside the sun used its radiant rays to lift itself to the sky, the omen for a bright, sunny day. Something in the air told them it wouldn't be that bright for the two of them…

There was always something to be done about it. He knew he could grab his clothing and throw them to the balcony, sure that the neighbor's cat would shred the prized clothing of the desert man. The both of them knew that there was always something that could be done, but they knew better as well, they knew that eventually the world would come knocking on the door and the desert winds would start blowing in the direction of that forested city, calling like a chant for their leader. So under a silent agreement they always knew their remaining time was to be spent in that heart-warming embrace.

Then would come the moment of a quick shower and helping each other with the loving task of keeping a warm temperature and getting dry in the midst of laughter and ruffled hair. Helping with the setting of a leg ring here, each buckle the right way, a long strap across a shoulder and a large gourd attached to it on the back, a scarf around the shoulders, all covering places and red marks that were for no one but them.

And then, still too early to see people around in the streets, a long walk in silence that was the freeway of a communication hand in hand until reaching a large door. A large door that could change a lot in their consideration, depending on the side where they were, right side outside, wrong side inside. There wouldn't be a grand gesture of goodbye, just a long consumption of the sight of each other and then the sound of footsteps taken by someone fragile without him.

He would feel desperately broken inside, so broken he would begin fearing that if he reached out a hand to stop him, he would break in one thousand and one shards, so broken and lost and fragile that no sound would come from his half opened mouth.

Maybe he would still be able to see him and talk to him that time in his dreams.

It was always like that, so once again, he knew that it would be like that, and he was sure to breathe in all of the other while he could, memorizing every tiny smile that might have been an illusion and the touch and the barely there smell of cinnamon and spice.

One day, one day that ritual wouldn't be needed at all.

One day, he wouldn't have to endure that repetitive process of being heart-broken and then healed again, always the same. Always for the sake of that undying love, the birth and death and then rebirth once again of that affection that seemed to give them both strength and weakness. For he knew eventually the circle would close again and one of the two chests would stop moving and the other would apply strength on it for the both. He knew that that joining and parting of their lines was always a part of it, a small sacrifice for their happiness.

He would always choose having him for one night over never being able to feel his warmth like that.

Someday, he would be able to transform one night of those into forever. That was his dream that would become a reality.

He knew it, he simply knew it.

-

_«…Would you still be in my dreams?»_

-------

**D'aaaawh. The end.**

Ooh. Ouch.

Thanks for reading.

Review, review please… Please ignore the lacerating pain in your brain and stomach and those trails of blood coming from your ears and eyes. But please review… That'd be awesome, and it would help me knowing what you like and what you don't like so next time the pain might lessen. Please?

Still, I hope I'll be doing more of this.

**11.o7**


End file.
